Stick Shift

Joy, even.

What was that about? She blamed her lack of appropriate apprehensions on the sleeping pill she’d taken the night before and settled in with the latest copy of Complete Woman, turning to the article entitled, “Rule Your World: 10 Ways to Get Control When Life Feels Wacko.”

2

“THIS FOOD should not be fed to a dog!” the deep voice beside her growled.

It had been a miserable, turbulent flight so far and now Garlic Guy wanted to complain about his breakfast. Lucy wished he would just shut up.

Actually, she thought her tiny omelette du jour, filled with some kind of unrecognizable cheese-like substance, was rather tasty.

She didn’t want to even look at him, even give him the slightest indication she recognized his presence, but he poked her in the arm to get her attention.

“How you eat that? It’s not food. It’s plastic. That’s what it is, plastic food.”

Despite herself, Lucy had to answer. “I think it’s wonderful! Best eggs I’ve ever eaten.”

He made a dismissive gesture, and called for an attendant.

Lucy continued to enjoy her breakfast, making little yummy sounds as she chewed. She had to admit there were parts of the omelette that tasted like dishwater, but she would never say it out loud.

“Take this away. I should eat my shoe rather than smell what you call an omelette,” Garlic Guy said to the male flight attendant who stood in the aisle. “Look,” he continued as he pulled off his black leather sandal. Everybody around him turned to watch, even Lucy. “This shoe, my shoe, tastes better.” He took a bite.

Ironically, part of his sandal came off in his mouth. Lucy sat there, gawking. The flight attendant, a tall Harry Potter look-alike, stood spellbound, until some kid said, “Gross!”

Lucy couldn’t believe her eyes. Mr. Garlic was actually chewing his own shoe.

Disgusting.

Fine, she thought, I’m destined to be tormented by this shoe-eating, garlic-toting idiot. I must have done something bad in a past life, or the current one, and he’s my punishment.

VITTORIO had to admit he amazed himself when a piece of leather came off in his mouth. He never actually meant to eat his own shoe, but there it was, sliding around, mixing with saliva, breaking into pieces. The taste was rather interesting, certainly better than the omelette. Would he actually swallow?

But the girl next to him was waiting. Watching. So, he swallowed. And just like that, Vittorio Bandini had eaten a piece of his own shoe.

“It is good,” he said, beaming.

“I’ll need you to calm down, sir. And if you want to eat your shoe, please wait until the plane has landed,” the attendant said as he removed the offending breakfast tray.

Vittorio put his shoe back on his foot, a concession he went along with because the leather had immediately upset his stomach. And if he didn’t relax he would vomit all over the pretty, brown-eyed beauty sitting next to him.

She was the type of girl Vittorio was attracted to, the type of girl who made his heart race; a beautiful, brown-haired Penelope Cruz type. His dream girl. He would not vomit on his dream girl.

He refused to believe it was the leather, the fine Italian leather, that made him sick, so he blamed it on the foul-smelling breakfast instead. The rotten eggs kept him from making a move on the Madonna next to him, not the shoe leather.

Vittorio unstrapped his seatbelt, pushed himself up from his seat, and stepped over the Madonna, squishing her toe as he climbed out.

“So sorry, signorina,” he mumbled about a dozen times. She shot him a nasty, pained look and he headed up the aisle toward the toilets.

Never again, Vittorio thought as his stomach churned and flipped. Never again would he eat shoe leather, even if it was Italian.

LIMPING UP the aisle, Lucy found another seat a few rows away from the shoe eater. She wondered what the hell was wrong with her? Why was she being so silly? Who makes yummy sounds over airplane food?

She couldn’t come up with an answer.

A young kid in the aisle seat concentrating on his electronic game paid absolutely no attention to Lucy as she crawled over him. He was the perfect traveling companion. She could do anything she wanted and he would never notice.

She popped a couple of Tums, tucked her sore foot up next to her butt and detached the phone in the seat ahead, to call Seth.

When he didn’t answer, she left a long-winded message about work and obligation and how much she missed him already and not to worry. She would be back in plenty of time for the wedding.

Their wedding…in exactly six days from that very moment. The vision made her smile: a church filled with family and friends, her dad walking her down the aisle, her white dress (the one her mother made her get…the one that looked like an exploded marshmallow, but she wasn’t going to dwell on negatives) shimmering in the sunlight that beamed in through the windows and fell on Seth’s face…dear Seth…dear, sweet Seth.

Okay, so he wasn’t exactly a “dear” or “sweet” kind of guy. He was more the logical Dilbert kind, who was absolutely perfect for her, if she overlooked his funky sex-only-on-Friday-night habit, and the fact that at twenty-seven she had never had an actual orgasm with him or any other guy for that matter, and the fact that he was obsessed with their careers in electronics.

Actually, she thought he was a lot like her dad—also a design engineer, who promoted working long hours and giving up personal time for the job. The dad-clone-thing traits were just what a girl wanted in a fiancé.

Weren’t they?

She dialed Seth’s cell phone this time, thinking she needed to apologize for last Friday night. She hadn’t been in the mood. “But it’s Friday. Sexday,” Seth had said, almost whining. Like, Saturday was actually Laundryday, and Sunday, Groceryday. Seth had worked out a daily schedule for his life, their life, but for some reason, lately, Lucy wasn’t able to keep up.

A perky blond flight attendant with a pasted-on smile interrupted the apology-call to offer her a cup of coffee.

Lucy snapped the phone into its holder.

“No, thanks,” Lucy said, thinking perhaps she’d make the call later, once she was settled in her room, once she could come up with a logical reason why packing had seemed like a better alternative to Sexday.

The shoe eater stood in the aisle directly behind the attendant, looking rather ill. He wasn’t particularly handsome, his nose was a little too long, his hair too shiny-black for his light olive skin, and he had the strangest colored eyes, some sort of a brown-hazel-green combination.

She couldn’t imagine what all the fuss had been about. Why she had to move in closer when she stood behind him in line. Why she had to watch him as he ate his shoe, or felt the need to tell him about her breakfast. He was just your typical, ordinary, unexceptional quirky guy.

Then he smiled. Smiled right at her.

A mischievous grin that required a return gesture. It was a natural reaction. A reflex. A totally spontaneous occurrence that gave her goose bumps and made her toes itch. The guy was so utterly charismatic. So completely awesome that she had no choice but to return his beam. With that smile, he looked like the type of guy who could have a hot babe draped on each arm.

Cufflinks, Sinatra used to say.

She smiled right back at him, a wide, toothy Julia Roberts grin.

Don’t stare, she told herself as he tried to make his way past the attendant, but Lucy was powerless. There was something about him.

Something in the way he moved.

She noticed his hands first, the long fingers with the manicured nails that grabbed at the backs of the seats for balance as the plane hit a pocket of turbulence. She wondered what they would feel like against her skin—soft and smooth or rough with calluses?

She liked the way his deep-green sweater clung to his trim body. Liked the way it made his skin seem to glisten. She even liked the way he wore his hair, cropped short, almost old-Roman style, but with skinny sideburns.

A great look, she thought. Seductive.